The Way an Apostate Loves Song
by Anti-canon
Summary: His name is Dean Winchester and he is wild, and dangerous, and free, and everything that you are not... You whisper his name like a curse, like a sin when you touch yourself late at night and let it spur you on to do things that make the rosary around your neck feel like molten lead against your skin the next day.


**A/N: I spent my whole evening last night working on a few mixes and reading High School AU's and somehow this is what popped up. I don't even really know what it is. Beware- there is some Edgar Allen Poe influence working its way in here as I have been studying a few of his poems lately. :P Just one of those things that sneaks into your subconscious and you don't recognize it until later.**

**Anyways! Title stolen from The Airborne Toxic Event's song Missy. It makes much more sense in context. :P Erm... lemme know what you think! I love to get feedback of any and all kinds. ^^**

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His name is Dean Winchester and he is wild, and dangerous, and free, and everything that you are not. His eyes are an electric sort of green and catlike in their mischievousness. They are the sole feature on his face belying the kind of trouble a kid like him can cause. The pink of his lips, the turn of his nose, the gentle burst of freckles across the bridge of his nose, paint a portrait that can only be described as pretty- no matter the stubble on his cheeks, the rumble of his voice, the bulk of his muscle.

He drives a rusted grey motorbike that spews acrid black fumes and can be heard coming for miles off. To complete the image he's always wearing a worn, brown leather jacket across his shoulders and aviators that glint when they catch the sun. He does _not_ wear a helmet or use the rearview mirrors.

In the cracked saddlebag he keeps a flask, though no one knows if there's really alcohol inside (certainly no one is stupid enough to try and ask), a well-loved copy of Kerouac, and a pack of cigarettes paired with a silver lighter- the initials M.W. engraved between a pair of elaborate wings. As far as you know he lights up twice a day, always menthols, before and after class. The teachers do not know or do not care, but you are intensely enraptured. The way he lets the smoke curl and shift just inside his mouth, wrapping around the curve of his tongue, for that moment alive, steals the air from your lungs. And then, with but the barest pursing of his lips, he releases it from his hold in one long exhale, lifting his chin and focusing the stream of it as intensely as if he were shooting a gun. It feels just as purposeful and intent.

When he is done he always grinds the stub of it out on his tongue, brows furrowing, whether in discomfort or the dare to think he could possibly feel pain, you do not know. He licks his lips, the taste of the nicotine probably _just _lingering, and puts his hands just above the swell of his ass, to lean back until his spine pops. The hem of his shirt rides up enough to reveal the thatch of hair leading beneath the waist of his jeans and the whole of the student body watches for it. He knows this, of course, and the corner of his lips quirk when he catches each and every one of you staring.

He is a wolf in a community of sheep and the shepherd stepped out a long while ago. On the rare occasion he smiles wide enough to show his teeth, the canines catch on his bottom lip and it is purely predatory. Mostly it's reserved for when a brave, but mostly stupid person dares to challenge his actions, and you have yet to see someone hold their ground in its wake. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and the pit of your stomach burst into an angry kind of butterflies. Your mouth goes dry and your palms get sweaty and your pants grow tight.

You whisper his name like a curse, like a sin when you touch yourself late at night and let it spur you on to do things that make the rosary around your neck feel like molten lead against your skin the next day. Surely, you think, he can see the evidence of it on your hands every time his gaze sweeps over you. It should make you feel guilty, ashamed. It does make your ears burn, but with the thrill of being caught, and maybe even punished. It makes your heart race and your throat close and your toes curl.

The collars of your modest sweaters always feel too tight in his presence. The beaten down, mustard yellow Yugo you drive is an embarrassment, the self-annotated copy of _Pride and Prejudice _a guilty secret, your own vice- a handful of butterscotch candies you keep in your pockets always- is childish. Your glasses are prescription, you always wear your seatbelt, the strongest drink you've ever had was a mug of cinnamon tea you once steeped twice as long as you were supposed to. If your back ever popped you'd be worried you broke something, though your knees are as creaky as an arthritic retiree's. You don't think you'd know how to be graceful if your life depended on it, but you're as eloquent a boy of your age could ever hope of being. Too bad you hardly talk.

Every morning you lean against the driver's side door of your poor little putt-putt clown car in the student parking lot, pop a butterscotch on your tongue, read Mr. Darcy's first proposal of marriage, and watch Dean Winchester smoke his first cigarette, tapping his feet to a song playing only in his head. Then every afternoon you do the same from the hood of the car, while reading Mr. Darcy's second. It's a ritual you've become quite comfortable with, one you're certain you'll keep until the final day of your senior year.

Today, the sun is just breaking over the mountains, the chill autumn air has made the tips of your fingers numb and the point of your nose pink. Dean's cursing as he noticeably shakes from the cold, the lighter not half so easy to flick to life as it normally is. You can't help but laugh to yourself, only you are not quick enough to smother the sound and it drifts across the frost-dusted asphalt like a phantom, so disembodied to match the fear pushing your consciousness outside your body for the moment. His head snaps in your direction with a startling amount of speed and you clasp your hands over your mouth- too late.

The length of his stride carries him the short distance so quickly, you couldn't hope to react and suddenly he is in your space, one hand braced on the roof of your car, just beside your head. The other reaches up to pull away his aviators, and the look behind them is…. curious. After a moment he takes the still unlit cigarette from the crease of his lips and tucks it behind an ear, licking his lips as usual before he presses a palm over his mouth. His brow furrows and you think that if he's silent for much longer your heart might just hammer its way to an early grave.

You search for words, but pull up empty and instead bite your lip 'till it nearly bleeds to keep yourself from whimpering. Finally, finally he peels his hand away, pokes an index finger into your chest and croaks out, "About fuckin' time you took notice." You don't have the faculties to wonder just what that means before he's pressing into your space, pressing the jut of your hips together, pressing his fingers into the back of your head, pressing his lips against yours, pressing his tongue inside.

Your book drops, forgotten, to the ground as you place both hands firmly on his ass, and arch up into his touch. It makes him groan and press harder, harder, harder in those half-dozen places, and you are dizzy with it. By the time he pulls back your lungs are screaming, your skin is quite the opposite of cold, and the front of your pants feel like they're going to burst at the seams.

Dean smiles, so much like the cat that got the canary, and threads his fingers through yours, the sound of a hard candy clacking against his teeth making your cheeks turn pink.


End file.
